TOKYO — Veteran fish seller Yoshito Shimada is under siege. At a grocery store in Tokyo's Shibuya district, mothers pushing strollers demand proof that the daily catch isn't from the waters off the stricken Fukushima Dai-ichi nuclear plant.
"I tell them the government checks the fish for radiation, but they don't trust elected officials, or anyone," said Shimada, his blue shirt stained with fish blood. "A year after the disaster, Japan is still afraid of its own food."
Even in Tokyo, more than 200 miles from the northeastern region devastated by the March 11, 2011, earthquake and tsunami that caused radiation to spew from the nuclear plant, residents fear local schoolyards are laced with dangerous isotopes.
Citizen collectives wander streets with dosimeters to make sure their neighborhoods remain radiation-free, conducting spot checks on fish and produce.
A year after the worst natural disaster in their country's history, residents of Japan are still struggling to cope with the staggering toll of a catastrophe that left nearly 20,000 dead or missing. But a more insidious legacy may be a shaken trust — in their government, in their source of energy and even in the food that sustains them.
"Many Japanese feel they've been lied to by their government," said Mitsuhiro Fukao, an economics professor at Keio University in Tokyo who has written about the public loss of trust. "In a time of disaster, people wanted the government to help them, not lie to them. And many wonder whether it could happen again."
Even though the tsunami had knocked out the cooling system at Fukushima, leading to meltdowns in three reactors, officials insisted all was well at the seaside plant.
Recently released reports show that was far from the case.
Seeking to avoid a public panic, then-Prime Minister Naoto Kan and his advisors buried a worst-case assessment by the Japan Atomic Energy Commission that included the possible evacuation of Tokyo. Officials delayed disclosing key data and safety standards, leaving many Japanese not knowing whether their food chain had been contaminated.
A new report on Fukushima for the American Nuclear Society says the long-term health risks of the radioactive fallout will probably be minimal. But some Japanese aren't convinced.
Suspicious of data provided by the government and news media, many people now conduct their own radiation research. They surf the Internet and seek out podcasts that offer alternative perspectives on the dangers and what to do about them. They flock to the Twitter accounts of nuclear scientists.
In what's being called the "measurement movement," people rushed to buy their own Geiger counters and dosimeters to check for radiation exposure. At a Tokyo electronics store, one salesman said he was amazed at how knowledgeable customers had become about the sophisticated equipment.
Some of the fears are well researched, others less so. Sociologists report a "social stigmatization" of evacuees from the area around the Fukushima plant.
Even the trash left in the tsunami's wake is a source of fear.
The landscape of northeastern Japan remains littered with 25 million tons of clothing, computers, stoves and car parts, shoved aside into massive unsightly mountains. Fearing high levels of radioactive cesium, residents across Japan don't want the debris buried or incinerated near their homes. The government is offering to pay communities to accept the rubble, but there are few takers.